I lead her to the kitchen, pulling open the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water. I twist off the cap, set it in front of her, then lean against the counter.

“Drink.”

She picks it up but doesn’t take a sip. Instead, she studies it, fingers tracing over the condensation. Then she looks at me.

“What?” I ask.

An almost-there smile tugs at her lips. “You’re weirdly good at this.”

I scoff. “At what? Taking care of people?”

She nods, voice quieter now. “Yeah.”

I shrug, reaching out and brushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead. “You get used to it.”

She studies me. There’s something unreadable in her expression.

Then, after a long moment, she asks, “Who took care of you?”

The question lands somewhere deep, hitting a place I don’t usually let people go.

I could lie.

Tell her it doesn’t matter.

But instead, I just shake my head. “No one and it’s totally fine.”

She doesn’t look away. Thankfully, she doesn’t say she’s sorry for whatever fucked up childhood I had. Nor does she try to fill the silence with something that won’t mean anything.

She just nods. Like maybe she understands. Like maybe she’s lived it too.

I don’t know what pushes me to take her into my arms. Thank fuck she lets me hold her there, her body tense at first, and then something shifts. She exhales, just barely, and it’s enough. Enough to tell me she’s letting herself lean—just for a second.

And fuck—she doesn’t pull away.

And I don’t let go.

Not yet.

For some reason, I can’t understand why I need this. It settles me in a way I never expected, just like it confuses me the only way Blythe can since I met her at the coffee shop.

The next morning, I wake up in the guest room.

It wasn’t the plan to let her stay in my apartment—or to give her my bed. However, after a couple of times of Blythe running back and forth to the bathroom, it just made sense. I didn’t want her to be alone while she had to deal with her stomach issues.

Morning sickness? Fucking lie.

There was nothing morning about it. It dragged her out of bed every few minutes, pulling me right along with it. Maybe it wasn’t that often, but it sure as fuck felt like it.

I rub a hand over my face, exhaling before pushing myself up. I’m exhausted, but lying here won’t do shit.

I head to the kitchen, already pulling out the basics—bread, eggs, and avocado.

Something tells me that if I don’t step in, she’ll keep living off crackers and whatever else she manages to grab when I remind her she has to eat.